Stuart Cubbon, Jr. is a writer and special situations consultant based out of Northern New Jersey. He is currently a student in the M.S. program in Strategic Communication.
During my grandpa Frank’s first G.I.-Bill-funded year at Allegheny College, two things caught his attention the most: a woman named Babs, and the municipal trash collectors.
At first, Babs — also known as my grandmother — didn’t understand Frank’s fascination with the garbage collection team.
“We didn’t have that where I grew up,” he pointed out.
“Trash collectors?” Babs asked, bewildered.
Frank grew up in Pithole, Pennsylvania, which was exactly what it sounded like. “We were so poor, we didn’t even have trash,” he explained.
Soon after Frank returned home for the summer, town residents began hearing unusual sounds in the early morning hours. To them, it sounded like a busted diesel truck engine. But to Frank, this was the sweet sound of progress.
To them, it sounded like a busted diesel truck engine. But to Frank, this was the sweet sound of progress."
Frank ran the operation from an ancient dump truck with the “#1” painted prominently on each side. Truck #1 had an issue. Due to a broken latch, the only way to release the dumper was from inside of it. In other words, Frank had to wade through the trash at every house.
But this was no nickel-and-dime operation. I mean that literally, as in, hardly anyone had a nickel or dime to pay him. But Frank was patient, and accepted baked goods and strong coffee instead.
The next summer, Frank continued the operation. Soon he added another truck and a small army of high school students to help, though Frank held firmly onto his role as the broken-latch-release-man for truck #1. Through a combination of sheer determination, and plenty of homemade meatloaf sandwiches, Frank pushed Pithole into the modern age. At least from the perspective of recurring trash collection.
Through a combination of sheer determination, and plenty of homemade meatloaf sandwiches, Frank pushed Pithole into the modern age."
Eventually Frank finished college and headed off to law school. Municipal services took over Pithole’s trash collection, and he went on to become a prominent attorney and investor.
Nearly a half-century later, I asked Babs and Frank for advice on the business plan for my equipment rental company. They studied the plan carefully.
Frank asked, “Who’ll do the deliveries and pickups?”
“Students on break,” I said.
Babs gently laughed, she knew what her husband was going to say next.
“No, no, no,” he said. “The owner should be out there. Let ‘em see you work.”
“Let who?” I asked.
“Anyone you’re paying, and anyone paying you,” he said.
'No, no, no,' he said. 'The owner should be out there. Let ‘em see you work.'"
I wasn’t convinced, and we continued volleying for a few minutes. Eventually, Babs chimed in again. “The dump truck, Stuart, the dump truck. Why do you think we never fixed the latch?”
I had heard the story dozens of times, but that day was the first time I ever truly listened. Let ‘em see you work, indeed.
The views expressed are those of the author and do not necessarily represent the views of any other person or entity.
